Old Harry was dying. And he knew it.
He lay on his bed, hardly able to raise his head.
Last goodbyes had been exchanged,
and Harry thought it was about time to go.
He sighed deeply, and closed his eyes.
Just at that moment,
the smell of his wife's delicious chocolate chip cookies
wafted up the stairs.
He sniffed -- sniffed twice.
Chocolate chip cookies -- his very favorite.
With the last of his strength,
Harry slid out of bed
and shuffled slowly and painfully down the stairs,
and into the kitchen.
There they were --
the whole table covered with them. Hot from the oven!
Harry reached for the one nearest, with great anticipation.
WHAP came his wife's spatula on his outstretched hand!
"They're for the funeral," she screeched.